


Johnlock

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Meta, RPS made them do it, Romance, Slash, Smut, fic discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RPS made them do it.  Silly, smutty fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Johnlock

**Author's Note:**

> Meta, rinse, repeat.

**Title:** Johnlock  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** Sometime between A Scandal in Belgravia and The Reichenbach Fall  
 **Author's Notes:** Meta, rinse, repeat.  
 **Summary:** RPS made them do it. Silly, smutty fluff.

 

 

"Sherlock!" John calls from the living room. Sherlock doesn't look up from his work. "Sherlock, I promise you will want to see this."

Sherlock sighs, then trudges through the kitchen and over to him. "Well?"

"Just. Just look. Just _look_!" John gestures frantically at the computer screen.

Sherlock peers over his shoulder. "That's absurd."

"I know! How could anyone even think this is okay?"

Sherlock's eyes flick over the paragraphs on the screen. "Indeed. Skipping lube altogether is most unwise."

John gives him an odd look, then elects to ignore. "Don't they realize how invasive this is? It's sick!"

Sherlock straightens up. "I'm curious as to why you draw the line at _this_. Personally I find our little fanbase invasive by definition. And I think you'll agree that 'fans' like Moriarty are rather more invasive. And sick."

John does look sheepish at that. "I just, you know, I don't like the idea of people speculating on my sex life."

Sherlock shrugs. "It's no different from the rest of the fans to whom I am an object of sexual desire. And no, I am not being egotistical—I've had the misfortune to encounter a few of them."

"But but . . . this _is_ different, though," John says staunchly.

"No, it's not."

"But it's—"

"I'd be interested to hear why you think it's different. Is it different because these fans make an attempt at creativity in expressing their admittedly twisted fantasies, rather than stooping to actual stalking?"

"Look." John places his hands on the table like it'll anchor his thoughts. "People can't just see a couple of television interviews and incidental photos and conclude what the nature of our relationship is." Sherlock opens his mouth— "People who _aren't_ you, I mean."

"It is strange that people so often assume it, considering we clearly aren't in a sexual relationship," Sherlock admits.

"Yes, thank you, it's _ridiculous_!"

"It's easy to see why they'd jump to conclusions, though. "

"I know it's—what?"

"Clearly you are unaware, John, but you do show virtually every sign of being attracted to me, hm, fairly regularly . . ."

"Now hang on—"

"But as you said not long after we met, you are not interested in me sexually. So, I assume this means any time you lick your lips, or your pupils dilate, or your tone of voice changes, or your palms sweat, or you maintain eye contact—"

"Okay, sorry, what do _you_ know about appropriate eye contact?"

Sherlock scowls. He's an expert in human behavior, and quite resents John for implying otherwise.

John laughs all of a sudden. "I'm already sorry for showing this to you." Shuts his laptop and snatches his jacket from the coat rack on his way out.

Interesting.

*

John is putting the shopping away when Sherlock appears at his side and makes all the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

"Did you _only_ buy milk and jam?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes. Something wrong with that?"

Sherlock shrugs. He's wearing that purple shirt of his that John found so very distracting.

Out of the blue Sherlock starts talking: "Do you know why people say were couple? It's because it's obvious. And I never correct them because I wish it was true."

John frowns. "Is this a joke? You're acting very out of character, you know."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock says. "I like that you bend when I push, but not always. I like that you make excuses for me and keep me in check and give me a second set of eyes. I like that you think of the simple solutions that are too obvious for me to consider, sometimes.

"I like that you think I'm mental just like everyone else does, but you don't see what's so bad about that.

"I like that you value my skills, and I like that you treat me like a person and not a computer. I like that you don't even think of _not_ being nice to me just because I'm insufferable.

"Sometimes, I don't know how I could ever go back to not having you around. And I have no idea how you did it but somehow you've infiltrated my defenses and made a home in my head, so if you weren't there I wouldn't be able to function properly because at this point nothing mental or physical can replace the idea of you."

John studies his face in a futile attempt to read him, licks his lips and talks quietly, "Is that all?"

"No. I _hate_ you for this. I _hate_ that you've done this to me without even trying. And I hate that I still want to kiss you in spite of that."

"You, ah, you want—?"

"John, I want to kiss you _all the time_ —God's sakes, how could you _not notice_?"

John swallows. It's almost unbelievable how quickly he's gone from never considering the possibility of sex with Sherlock to being absolutely confident that he wants it more than anything.

Sherlock takes John in his arms and John's knees go weak.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighs, swooning into the ki

 

 

No no, John wouldn't do that. That was a bit much. Sherlock backspaces impatiently. He considers cutting down on all the talking about feelings, too, because fic!John was right—it was a bit out of character. However, John was always pleased when Sherlock seemed to show emotion, and especially when it was because of or specific to John.

It takes little more than an afternoon of surfing the corners of the internet that housed their following to get a general idea of the workings of the community, and of the stories. Sherlock struggles to find the perfect title for his story rather longer than he'd taken to actually write it. It had to stand out enough that John would read it, but it also had to blend in.

He makes a list:

> The Chronicles of You and I—no, implies it's some multi-chapter epic John's not likely to waste his time with, especially considering how uncomfortable he is with his obvious attraction toward me

> The Shoestring Project—relevant to the retelling of the 1986 "cold case" Mepham St murders, but perhaps not an effective attention-getter, romantically

> Tumbler—a clever reference to the climax of the mystery, to be sure, but simply doesn't have enough substance to hold one's interest very long

> Solitude on the Thames—no, rather too melancholy

> Five Times They Didn't and One Time They Did—accurate, straightforward, and piques interest, but far from unique 

At one point, Sherlock almost gives up and calls it Two People Having Fictional Sex just to be contrary. John seemed to think titles were important, though, and Sherlock felt a lot of pressure to get it just right so as to avoid suspicion.

Sherlock absolutely refuses to give in to the fan community's portmanteau couple name for them. Why did it have to be 'Johnlock'? Why couldn't it be something else? For example Sherohn . . . all right, fine, that wasn't nearly as catchy. It doesn't mean Sherlock has to approve of 'Johnlock', though.

After a couple of edits of the story he ends up tagging it as such just for good measure.

He's really very pleased with himself as he finishes his elaborate encoding and categorizing and posts it at long last for all the world to see.

. . . And is immediately met with a 502 error screen whose sadface does little to mollify him.

*

John comes home from the shops for real, this time, puts everything away before stalking into the living room with his arms folded protectively across his chest. He stands up straight but lowers his head, dominant but defensive. Sherlock likes his contradictions, and barely stifles a smile.

"Do you know why people say were couple?" John asks.

"Yes."

But John is in one of his more determined moods, narrows his eyes instead of rolling them. "I like you. You know that. I like that you bend when I push, but not—okay _what_ is with the face?"

Sherlock tempers his smirk. "Nothing. Go on."

"Sometimes," John continues, "I don't know how I could ever go back to not having you around."

"Well, that's understandable."

John laughs shortly. "No, you're _not_ understanding. Sherlock . . . I _love_ that you do this to me. I love that you've done it without even trying to."

"Oh. Well. I." Sherlock had written the story in an attempt to get John to recognize his own feelings for Sherlock. He hadn't banked on being so intrigued _himself_ by the idea of sex with John, now that it was on the table and not constantly shoved aside by logic or John's vehement denials and constant sidesteps around the issue. He certainly hadn't anticipated wanting to do it merely because John wanted to do it. He hadn't thought of the flutter in his stomach at John's eyes raking over him with all that possibility in the air.

Sherlock tries to clear his throat as unnoticeably as possible. "Really, John, what _are_ you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, this isn't like you at all. You're English, you're intelligent, and you're—"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Oh yes, I know. You're already keenly aware of your own brilliance."

"Well it is rather obvious."

"Not in this case."

"What am I missing, then?" Sherlock's heart beats so incessantly he's sure it's shaking his voice.

"You already know that I want you. So why haven't you ever done anything about it?"

Sherlock appraises him, then stands and takes a step closer.

"Sherlock, er . . ." John's backed up. "We don't have to . . . I mean, you know, nowhere it is written that we have to just . . . you know. _Now_."

"That's where you're wrong, John," Sherlock says, taking him into his arms confidently. "It's been _written_ quite a lot." He's just gearing up for a fantastically Gone With the Wind style snog when John instead lunges and slides his mouth against Sherlock's hard and decidedly unromantically.

This causes Sherlock to stumble, especially when John's legs get tangled awkwardly with his, and after much struggling Sherlock finds himself on the creaky old floor with a headache and a nasty bruise forming on his elbow, but that's all right because John's straddling him and is holding his arms down and kissing him relentlessly and doesn't seem to care whether or not Sherlock's comfortable, which is thrilling in and of itself.

Sherlock strains his neck up to kiss him back, and John's shirt smells like old sweat and leftover cologne, which is sharp and musky and excitingly John. John, who's grinding a very conspicuous erection into Sherlock's stomach and Sherlock's too disoriented to think and my God, how had he lost control of the situation so quickly? It's fine, though, because Sherlock _does_ enjoy being outwitted, if only because it's such an irregular occurrence. Perhaps in this particular arena, John was well suited to outwit him. It's a thought that sends a jolt straight to his groin, and he finds himself moving his hips in tandem with John's, chasing the dull throb of arousal and stoking the fire rather than alleviating it. John moans into his mouth and realigns them so their clothed cocks are bumping together disjointedly and making Sherlock breathless and have to curl one leg up around John's to encourage him closer. John thrusts harder in response, and Sherlock gets dizzy with heat and wonders how the hell they'd got here so quickly.

John scrambles off of him, kneels on the floor by his side. He digs a condom out of his pocket and drops it on Sherlock's chest, which Sherlock blinks at. When he looks back up John's busy screwing open a tiny bottle that's come out of nowhere.

"You have _lube_? Why the _hell_ do you have lube?"

John shrugs, talks casually: "Oh, normal people carry it around all the time, just like keys or a wallet. Because sex is all we think about, you see."

Sherlock eyes him. "That . . . makes sense?"

"Yes. Yes, it does. Now take your trousers off."

Sherlock is suddenly so turned on he's sure he'd collapse were he standing. He scrambles to obey. "I . . . this . . . have you always been like this?"

"Yep." John leans down to kiss him for a bit, which Sherlock can't believe he swoons into, and when he pulls back Sherlock fails to stop the whiney noise he makes at the loss. John says, "This is uncivilized, yeah? On the floor, and all."

"In, in—ahem—indeed."

"Mm. Perhaps I should fuck you over a chair."

"I . . ." Then, "I."

"Why are your trousers still on?"

John yanks Sherlock's trousers and pants down and over his ankles himself, then pulls them both to their feet. It's not that Sherlock forgets how strong John is—it's just that he rarely finds himself on the receiving end of his strength. And all the other times had been rather more violent encounters. He chalks it up to his of course devastatingly accurate story awakening John's dormant passion.

Sherlock somehow regains the upper hand, presses John's arms against his sides and kisses him slowly, to which John shivers and groans. Sherlock is disproportionately pleased to have produced such a result in him with a mere kiss. He isn't sure if this is better or worse than rendering him exasperated or annoyed.

John squirms out of Sherlock's grip sneakily, spins him around and actually does bend him over a chair and Sherlock decides he has sufficient data to conclude that kissing is definitely better than exasperation. Inexplicably, insanely better . . .

John pushes Sherlock's shirt and jacket up to brush his lips along his spine as he works a lube-slick finger inside him. Sherlock's body wavers between tensing at the intrusion and relaxing at the melty heat of John's mouth on his skin, finding such randomly sensitive areas that confuse hints of pain with waves of pleasure.

Sherlock enters a strange sort of trance as John stretches him open, and when John presses the condom into Sherlock's listless hand Sherlock unwraps it without hesitation, then hands it back and grips the arm of the chair and grits his teeth as John replaces his fingers with his cock.

Sherlock's heart beats so fast he can't breathe, which doesn't make sense, and it really doesn't make sense that he's relaxing into the frantic feeling in his blood instead of becoming more alert and reining it in because feelings could get too addictive if you let them. It's a bit like a chemical stimulant, but he doesn't think John would appreciate the comparison. And anyway it's fundamentally different from a drug high because in that scenario Sherlock could control the dosage.

John, he couldn't control. And when had that happened? Perhaps more disquieting was that Sherlock found it enthralling instead of frustrating.

"How do you like being fucked, Sherlock?" John asks, doesn't wait for a response before starting to move, and the invasive fullness of it leaves Sherlock breathless and curious and wanting more.

"I don't know," Sherlock informs that ludicrous Union Jack pillow. "Well, I _wouldn't_ know."

John doesn't stop. Sherlock had expected him to hesitate, and really, really likes that he hadn't.

"So you _are_ a virgin." John doesn't sound titillated _or_ troubled about that, which makes Sherlock feel desperate to get a reaction out of him. Sherlock shoves back against him, impaling himself deeper and getting a thrill from the shaky inhale it surprises out of John.

"No," Sherlock continues. "I'm usually the one doing the fucking."

"The internet agrees with you, you know."

"It's about even, actually."

This was supposed to be sexually satisfying, wasn't it? So why was Sherlock choking on such directionless lust even more than before, and why were the bolts of pleasure that vibrated through his body at John's every thrust not abating but rather aggravating that fiery, frustrated feeling of simply _wanting_? Sherlock can't even articulate what it is he does want, but he just wants and wants and can't speak because of it.

"How's that?" John's voice is so subsonic.

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Er . . . sure."

"If one is mild pleasure and ten is extreme, seven."

"Mmm, I wonder what it takes to get a ten."

"I've a few ideas."

It's a strange, pleasing dichotomy, to be simultaneously in and out of control—John was the one holding him down and fucking him, but Sherlock was the one who had caused it. He feels as smug as he feels weak with pleasure and wantonly wanting.

"God," John gasps. "You look unbelievable like this. _Jesus_." He pounds into Sherlock harder and Sherlock really hates hyperbole but nevertheless he sees stars because oh, it's just too perfect . . .

"Oh, ten. _Ten_. Oh, _God_ . . . "

John laughs. "Never thought I'd be so turned on by numbers."

"That's because you've no imagination."

" _Sherlock_ ," John groans, nudges his forehead against Sherlock's still clothed shoulder. "Touch yourself."

Sherlock does it because John had told him, not because he'd been dying to, but now that he's got his hand wrapped around his aching cock he knows he won't last much longer. He lets the momentum of John's thrusts help him thrust into his hand, makes truly embarrassing and unearthly noises every time John's cock rams into him oh _God_ right there, just, _right there oh God_ . . .

Sherlock makes a strangled sound when he comes, to which John babbles breathless nonsense and Sherlock's name, then holds tensely still deep inside him before thrusting erratically and coming with a low gravelly groan that fills Sherlock's ears and seems to suck up his breath, for an instant makes just everything that he is belong to John in this shaky vulnerable blissful place he's landed in.

Sherlock's busy riding the high of it when John lifts him up and rearranges him like a ragdoll on the chair, then collapses into the one adjacent and grins and watches him, panting. Sherlock wonders if John is going to start manhandling him all the time now, directing him this way and that at crime scenes and on the street and around the kitchen. He laughs about it, and John tilts his head and laughs back without asking. Sherlock likes how they lock into wavelengths, like this. He's never been like this with anyone else.

"See?" John says. "Transport doesn't have to be tedious."

Sherlock snorts, which jostles his body and reminds him of his still tingling nerves. John watches with quiet heat. "No, but I think you'll agree bringing a book along on the Tube is less effort."

John laughs again, can't seem to stop grinning at him. He points. "You look ridiculous—you're pantsless and disheveled and blushing like a schoolgirl, but your jacket's still all neatly buttoned up."

"Some of us have a sense of decorum, John."

John laughs again, sinks farther into the chair and seems unconcerned about his completely open trousers or the used condom on the coffee table. "And to think, all this because some pubescent teenagers have taken to fantasizing about your bloody cheekbones in public forums across the world wide web."

Sherlock studies his nails. "Inspired you, did it?"

"Well . . . yes, all right. Sort of . . ."

Sherlock feels _unbearably_ smug, now, and it must show because John's expression then takes a turn for the smug as well, and he continues:

"You tend to forget that I know you as well as you know me. I only showed the stories to you so _you'd_ start contemplating it. Or, you'd at least finally notice that I do want you, and stop making excuses about it and take action one way or the other. When I saw you'd posted that story I knew it had worked."

Sherlock gapes. "But— _you_ —you're a _terrible_ actor, John."

" _Fuck_ you, I w—"

"No no no. No. No!" Sherlock can't catch his breath. "I— _how_ did you know I wrote 'Starlit Dreams of Eternal Longing' ?"

"Listen, Sherlock, I may not type a thousand words per minute, but I do know how IP addresses work."

"What gives you the right to—to _experiment_ on me?"

". . ." John says, and his eyebrow adds a _Really?_ "I didn't experiment on you—I was just testing a theory."

"That . . . _is_ experimenting."

"Oh, experimentation, seduction—potayto, potahto . . ." John is far too pleased with himself.

Sherlock continues to gape. The world has turned on its head, and he'd completely missed it happening.

"Worked rather well, though, don't you think?"

Sherlock doesn't stop staring and John doesn't stop smirking. Eventually Sherlock has to stand and pull John to his feet, kisses him to end the standoff. It really is rather better than staying exasperated.

*


End file.
